The photo’s paper was brittle with age. Pallioti held it up gently, grasping the corner between his finger and thumb. On the back, in faded ink, were the words Issa and Carlo, 10 May 1944.
Turning it over, he saw that the figures had faded. They appeared slightly ghostly, as if they, too, were finally leaving. But he could still make them out. A girl with cropped hair wearing a man’s trousers and shirt stood in front of a tall, fair boy. His bare arms, sleeves rolled up, were looped around her shoulders. Looking up at him, she was laughing. A meadow stretched around them. Behind them, mountain peaks rose into what must once have been a bright blue sky.
EPILOGUE
PITTSBURGH,
PENNSYLVANIA
August 2007
The street was tree lined. Branches spread over it, dropping little green propeller-like seeds onto the tarmac. Roots pushed up, buckling the concrete sidewalk. The houses were not large. Each of them sat on a small patch of lawn. Each had a front walk. Some had a garage. Eleanor Sachs’s did not.
A new-looking Volkswagen Beetle was parked in her driveway. Pallioti could not decide if this was a good or a bad sign. He had suddenly been gripped by the idea that she was away. At best, the car might mean she had not gone on a driving vacation. But she might still have taken a taxi to the airport. As he had. Enzo had offered to drive him, but he had hemmed and hawed, and finally said ‘no’. This was a trip he wanted to take, from start to finish, alone.
Sunlight the colour of honey dripped through the canopy of leaves. A woman came by, walking a dog. Two joggers ran down the centre of the street, their feet falling in tandem. He had been waiting for an hour, and the shadows were lengthening when he finally saw her, a small figure with the same dark hair, and the too-big bag over her shoulder. She was wearing a T-shirt and a flowered skirt and sandals, and seemed to be either talking or singing to herself, head bent, watching the sidewalk and hopping occasionally. He smiled when he realized what she was doing. Not stepping on cracks.
Eleanor Sachs checked her mailbox. He had already noted a utility bill, two magazines and a copy of today’s newspaper – the fact that there was mail had been one of the things that convinced him to wait. She continued up the front walk. On the porch, she dug in her bag for a key.
His plane had been delayed due to a thunderstorm early in the day. As he opened the car door, he could feel the close muggy embrace of late summer. He crossed the street, fingering the envelope he had folded the ring into. The small red book was in his pocket, the worn photograph tucked inside the front cover. Somewhere down the block, he could hear the rattle of a kid on a skateboard.
He rang the bell. The top of Eleanor’s front door was heavy bevelled glass, so he saw her legs first, coming down the stairs. Then the rest of her. She was running her hand through her hair, saying something to a large grey cat that scuttled in front of her. Then she looked up.
Eleanor Sachs stopped, frozen, one hand on the banister, her mouth opening in a small, soundless ‘oh’. Pallioti took a breath. He could feel everything going wrong, crumbling. Then she smiled. And stepped across the foyer and opened the door.
For a moment, neither of them said anything. Eleanor took in his blue jeans. His summer shirt. The fact that he wasn’t wearing a tie.
‘What,’ she said finally – the smile, which was rapidly turning into a grin, creased her face, lit the deep, deep blue of her eyes – ‘what on earth,’ she asked, ‘are you doing here?’
Pallioti took the red book out of his pocket. He held it out to her. The faint stamp of the gold lily caught the evening sun. Eleanor looked from the book to him.
‘I’ve come,’ he said, ‘to keep a promise.’
Acknowledgements
With very special thanks:
To my husband, for all the hours he spent listening and traipsing about the Italian countryside hunting down ghosts of the Partisans.
To Jane Gregory, and to all of the wonderful people at Gregory and Co. for their kindness, expertise and endless patience.
To Maria Rejt and Sophie Orme for their sound judgement, excellent advice and generous support.
And to the faculty of the Paris American Academy, and in particular John and Marsha Biguenet, for their inspirational teaching, wise counsel and for helping me to believe I could.
Thank you.
The Villa Triste Page 51